gold and bonesSully was pretty sure he wasn't cool enough. He had a yellow american appearal hoodie, brown bangs that fell into his blue eyes, and his father's old pentax film camera, but it wasn't enough. He was cool, but not Anthony McCormick cool.
Anthony was effortlessly cool, from the way he dressed to what he talked about. It was cool when Anthony breathed; not that Sully had spent a lot of time thinking about it or anything. On the day in question, an afternoon in May, Sully was walking through the old town district, looking for prospects. He was always looking, wherever he went, framing photographs with his eyes before he ever brought out his camera.
A green fire hydrant sat in front of small brown house where a man was mowing the lawn, sweat glistening on his head, his red plaid shirt tied around his waist. Sully pulled out the pentax, crouched, adjusted the lens, and took the picture. Straightening, he tucked the camera back into his hoodie and continued walking, tossing his hair. His bang
A cappellaMy mother, a famous classical violinist in her day, was on her deathbed and I didn't care. She was bedridden by the usual suspects, old age and a fall, and had been for many months when they called me. "Come see her," they said. "She'll pass on soon." They told me the nurses played Tchaikovsky, her favorite.A cappella4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"No," I said, and hung up the phone, slamming it against the wall, the cord jerking about in a wild dance. I glared at my CD player, as though it would suddenly come to life with violin concertos, then grabbed my coat, and left the house.
The critics never tired of saying she was passionate, that's what always got me. I remember going to her concerts; it was true, she had the most intense face, and her rigid body echoed the tension and frenzy of the music she loved to play. When she practiced, nothing could shake her from scales climbing, climbing, climbing. As a child, I always imag
NumbersNumbersNumbers5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I could not stop seeing
parallels between words
and human flesh.
A poem that could rise up,
hunching its back, a
concentration camp victim
with bare ribs; this
language rolls like the ridges
and dips of a spine, sticking
up through paper skin.
And theyre using the peaks
as an abacus, counting them
as they die.
The Portrait[975 words]The Portrait6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
You see, its hard to explain Jonathans words formed a small puddle on the expensive, imported carpet next to the shattered corpse of the china vase. His down-turned face was painted in shades of red; the light hue of guilt brushed across his checks with two bold strokes of embarrassment for eyes.
It cant be that difficult, just come out with it.
He didnt mean it, Daddy-- Emma tugged on Fathers sleeve.
I'm talking to Jonathan. Father removed Emmas hand from his suit. Don't speak.
I-I heard Emma shout from the kitchen and I thought she had gotten hurt so I ran to see what was the matter and on the way the vase fell over, he said hurriedly, his shoulders slowly hunching and his palms facing the ceiling.
You ran. Fathers eyebrows fought over the territory between them. &
HereFour year old Keaton gripped a green crayon in his tiny fist, pressing it hard against the paper. His parents fought beneath the sound of the tv in the background. Scribbling in rhythmic circles, he furrowed his brow. His mother came into the room, a dishtowel in her hands.Here4 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"What are you drawing, Keaton?" Her voice had the tremble of someone forcing their words to sound happy.
"Money," he said, then glanced up.
She came closer, examining the pages scattered around him from behind. All contained a dollar, done again and again in various sizes.
"You've drawn a lot of it."
"Yeah," he said, "we need a lot, so we can be happy."
She put a hand to her lips, standing there, then bent down beside him. "Money can't make us happy, Keaton."
"I am going to draw so much that you and daddy never fight again."
His mother sighed, putting a hand to her forehead, and was silent for a moment as he continued to color in green bill
The Critic's Toolkit: LitThe Critic's Toolkit: Literature EditionThe Critic's Toolkit: Lit4 years ago in Academic Essays More Like This
Critique, the examination or analysis of a work of art (in our case, a written work of course), can be an enjoyable, educational experience for both the critic and the author. If that sounds like something a teacher would say to you about a subject that makes you alternately fall asleep or want to throw up, don't despair, because it can actually be a great experience. You just need some tools to help you.
The main component to many critiques of beginner's work tends to be technical. This can be as basic as misspellings and punctuation errors, which can be an easy thing for you to put in your critique in order to give it more substance, but the technical aspect can also take on a wider scope. Technical critique can examine sentence structure in terms of general readability and how clearly an idea is portrayed, to even the metaphoric and the way imagery was used.
forget yourselfDear J,forget yourself6 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I thought I saw you today. It scared me; a cascade of butterflies erupted in my chest. My body lurched and my long-legged chair screeched like an out of tune cricket amidst the orchestral warm-up of the coffee shop but no one, no one noticed--no one noticed you. And no one saw the shade of fog that overtook my eyes, the hollow, haunted shade; like a tear on the cheek, the look that took all afternoon to dry. Are we both invisible?
picked cleanpicked clean5 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
I grieve in three shades: gray, black, and in that pinkish hue you find on the underbelly of a dead fish. I walk through cemeteries and the gravestones pour out their hearts to me, and I am glad to have umbrella when the pale-faced sky opens all the faucets in the house at once.
I grieve inside of acoustic-guitar strings. Its quiet there, and the warm hum reminds me of the glowing ember gnawing its way out of me from right behind my lungs, puncturing them to let out every breath I took from the crisp winter air that nips my face, licks me right on the nose, bathes my face in icy feather down.
I go to the art store to look through empty frames, because your face is in every one, and the gray in me turns to black. And I am the pebbles on the bottom of the river, slippery, holding up the water, and I am below the pebbles. I am the dirt. I am grimy and there is grit in my face, my mouth, my lungs, and I know what with
white goes upthe weight of the broken morningwhite goes up4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is shards of a vase on the floor.
we are not discussing anything.
when he sits, he folds himself.
he folds himself a thousand times.
folds himself inside.
the piano calls my sorrow
by name. I don't know how
it learned to do that, and
I don't like the feeling, as if
there are seagulls loose inside
and they kept circling overhead.
my body opens
the frenzy of silence.
Critiquing Themes in LitCRITIQUING THEMES AND MEANING IN LITERATURECritiquing Themes in Lit4 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
By M. Alice Chown
If you were a caveperson gazing up at the night sky, you'd search the stars and the blackness between for a meaning. The constellations, which are based on myths handed down by the ancient Greeks, stand as examples of our innate desire to find a message in a medium.
It's human nature to seek meaning. Our brains naturally fill in missing information to perceive order and sense even where none may exist. Likewise, during the act of reading, our brains try to find meaning beyond that which is expressed by the individual words. It's difficult to read the following without mentally imbuing the neologisms with meaning:
"'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."
--First stanza of the nonsense poem, "Jabberwocky", from "Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There", 1872, by Le
after our collisionafter our collision5 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
After our collision at the laundromat, I swing my legs over stone walls at the wharf. I listen as the screaming gulls throw the insults I threw at you back in my face, again and again, with the sting of their sharp claws, and I wonder when they lost their language. I wonder when, what date and time, man finally took the beauty of their songs and turned it into strung sentences of panic, pain, and hate.
I wonder when the waves became numb; I wonder how they became so numb as to let people take the true songs away from their white trumpeters. I wonder why the ocean is so calm, so patient, so forgiving, even as oil drums spill and sink and kill.
When I leave the graveyard of old wooden docks their skeletons follow me, the bones sticking straight up out of the water, worn by wind and sea, as I drift back into the bustling hornets nest.
I have to wonder--am I necessary? Im just one more worker bee; I can claim n
the fluttered- a collectionithe fluttered- a collection6 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
Hear my joints dislocate, coming apart at the notion of sunlight. It falls and it settles in pictures of loveliness, golden tree branches and hints of leaves; of autumn, of spring.
I am so tall in the water. My legs are never-ending, crooked lines of peachskin- watching my fingers draw out ripples until they strain and buckle and fall into the cool. Ill touch my toes and loop my figure and Ill make giant ripples, abhorring fallen leaves and sending shivers of blue through his legs.
Its a faded crimson red holding my breasts, tugging my hips and leaving my ribcage bare to the current. Its smudged lipstick and smeared blood to him; its the soft of petals and the heat of summer to me.
With dirt up my thighs and crushed flowers beneath my elbows we sat in echoes of bark; lit with the little light the leaves could spare. We were a picture. We were lovers in the dirt, near the stream, soft nothing above and heaviness beneath us.
It came tumbling down by my
Sleep Softly LoveHe smiled serenely as he washed his hands.Sleep Softly Love6 years ago in Mystery & Suspense More Like This
The perfect end to another perfect day.
The stains were hard to shift but with some small effort he found himself comfortable with drying his hands on the pristine white towels.
Mariannes mother bought us those. The kindly old dear always did give the most thoughtful presents. Annie insists we keep them clean, everything must be kept clean, just as Annie wants.
He calmly rooted around the cupboard and began filling his mop bucket. Hed get everything spotless for his dear sweet wife. How many years was it now? Fifteen? Gosh, how times flies.
The greying mop hit the wooden floor with a dull slap, splashing bleach and water up the walls.
Oh well, he thought. Ill have to scrub there next anyway. Annies bringing a friend round tonight, I must surprise her with a lovely clean home. She d